Precipice of Now

Precipice of Now

Today’s business awaits my attention.
A loose assemblage of things still to do.
An assortment that hangs in suspension;
At the precipice of ‘now’ … fallen due.
Unfinished jobs have no place on the shelf.
And so, to that list; that drop-box of chores:
bullet-pointed messages; notes to self;
reminders that only a fool ignores.
And so, to that list of missed appointments:
that stalled project; that interrupted task;
to all that, that is yet to commence.
To that pending pile: “be patient” I ask!
. All in good time, each matter’s attended.
. It’s at that point, the file is suspended.

© Tim Grace, 9 May 2014


To the reader: Two weeks after retiring, I started my next job. The plan was to down-size expectation and workload; get things back to a manageable perspective. To some extent that was the reality but the fundamentals of paper warfare move from job-to-job and desk-to-desk. Projects are the enemy of state. They form the territory upon which office activities spiral out of control in the name productivity. Projects – front-line battles that draw upon scarce resources and redirect energies towards hot-spots of disputed service.

To the poet: As a single-minded sonneteer, I manage my own poetry project – an anthology of sorts. As far as I know “One More Sonnet” has no project-plan; nothing to coordinate its resources and deliver its services. With hindsight, I could back-engineer a plausible plan that makes what I’ve done look organised; but in fact, the whole project grows like topsy. From one idea to the next I lunge and lurch … help wanted; must be good with pen and caper!


Precipice of Now

Precipice of Now

common threads

Common Threads

I collect nuts and bolts by the roadside,
it’s an odd assortment of random finds.
Some are obvious and easily spied:
they are those that shine before the rust binds
itself to their surface. New to the road
they have not nestled into hidden nooks,
nor taken the hit of a heavy load,
they retain the shape of their fresh made looks;
in every sense new to my collection.
As alluvial pickings they hold
the shimmer and shine of self-selection;
unweathered, yet to have their history told.
. So, what of this collection can be said?
. Nothing more true… than its a common thread.

Tim Grace, 29 November 2011


To the reader: Late 2011, I was seeking more from work than work could offer. Tedium was broken with a break for lunch that included a walk around the neighbouring streets. Always the tinkerer, I have an eye for nuts and bolts and this led to a surprisingly large, and quickly accrued, collection of threaded metal. An odd amusement but easily construed as metaphor: the world unwinds as road spill.

To the poet: Hardly a great poem, but then again, it actually describes a very real and raw time in my working career; when the most stimulating part of the day was a lunchtime walk. Each piece of road-spill is a poem in itself. The shiny collectables are obvious and attractive, but as in this poem it’s through them we describe the true character of a common thread; toughened steel.


 

common threads

common threads